


Partialism

by griesly



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Control Issues, Haircuts, M/M, Oral Sex, Trichophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griesly/pseuds/griesly
Summary: Q crafts all his agents' false identities carefully, but not always with his own bare hands. Not for just anyone.





	

As a habit, Q preferred to maintain a dignified facade at work, calm and reserved, never breaking a sweat. As a result, he dearly hoped no one would see him all but sprinting down the maze of corridors between Central Command and the cafeteria, hair a bit wild and glasses askew. It would have been so much simpler to take the lift from the basement levels to the mezzanine where the average paper-pushers took their extended lunches, had one existed.  

Maybe, Q thought. Just maybe there wouldn’t be another crisis for at least 30 minutes, and he’d have time to piss _and_ actually grab a sandwich before someone called him back to the Hive. Shoes skidding a bit on the tile, Q pushed open the heavy steel door to the loo and stopped for a moment at the scene which greeted him. The most infamous 00 in the storied history of Six stood at the mirror, cursing in frustration and fumbling with the contents of a black leather pouch.

“What on earth are you doing?” Q asked before he could think better of it.

“I’m shaving my head,” Bond answered without looking up.

Q blinked, adjusting his glasses. “May I ask why?”

Bond gave an annoyed grunt. “Contact in Minsk is demanding physical confirmation before they’ll talk,” he explained, comparing what looked like a pink plastic comb with a shorter purple one. “I’m not very well going to send over a selfie, so we agreed on some minor cosmetic details. Green parka with an orange ski tag, white trainers, and a shaved head.”

“That sounds attractive,” Q observed, forcing down a smirk when Bond narrowed his eyes. “Must be extremely needful data if you’re willing to meet an unknown agent on a power trip.”

“It is,” Bond returned. “Needful. What makes you say it’s a power trip?”

“The haircut,” Q answered, gesturing to the pair of electric clippers in Bond’s hand. “Likely a symbolic stripping away of identity to establish control. A reminder of one’s own lack of agency.”

“The Buddha shaved his head as a step toward enlightenment,” Bond countered, tilting his head to emphasize the words.

“Siddhartha made a show of humility,” Q rejoined. “A difficult concept for you, I know.” Bond shot him a glare in the mirror and continued to struggle with the guide comb.

“Or it could just be a way to annoy a foreign agent who needs their help,” Bond concluded with a grumble. “You can’t read too much into things like this.”

“On the contrary, I think you should read as much in as possible.” Q said, arms crossed over his rumpled button down.       

“You would,” Bond snapped, frustration clearly getting the better of him at last.

“Child,” Q muttered, finally remembering the reason he’d ended up in the loo in the first place. He ducked self-consciously into a stall, not relishing the idea of pissing in front of his least favourite agent. Well, he amended, maybe not _least_. 008 was a filthy, ungrateful heathen and Q kept him on the other side of the globe as often as possible. He flushed the toilet to cover up the sound of his swiftly emptying bladder, wishing Bond would give up on his impromptu haircut and go catch his plane.      

No such luck.

“Why are there so damn many of these?” Bond’s irritation echoed through the room almost as loudly as the clatter of plastic against the brushed chrome sink.

“Karma?” Q suggested, adjusting his clothes and heading to the row of faucets. Bond frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Q declined to answer, suddenly quite occupied with the task of washing his hands. He hated the soap Six stocked in the restrooms. It smelled like a particularly bad experience in his sixth form biology lab. He considered splashing Bond’s fancy suit with water just to be petty, but rejected the idea. Bond would inevitably make it a contest and win.

An orange comb snapped in half and Bond jammed one finger to his lips, as if he’d sliced it.  

“Oh for god’s sake,” Q exclaimed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “Can’t you use your own grooming products?”

“S’not mine,” Bond mumbled, pulling back his finger to assess the damage. “Borrowed it from 004. I’ve a much better quality set -”

“Obviously,” Q muttered.  

“ - in my flat, but the clock is unfortunately ticking.”   

“Just let me do it, then.” The order left Q’s mouth without appropriate review. He held out one hand imperiously for the clippers, a bit surprised at his own audacity. After a lengthy pause, Bond handed them over. Q noted that the device was shaped uncomfortably like a taser.

“Lose the jacket,” Q continued, figuring if he were going to be inconvenienced then Bond should be as well. “Probably the oxford, too, unless you want to feel like you’re wearing a hair shirt all the way to Belarus.”

“Never been the penitent type,” Bond said.

“Shocking,” Q rejoined flatly, hopping up on the edge of a stainless steel sink. It was the work of only a moment to sort through the blades and find the best choice (black), slotting it into the frame. Bond did as he was told, folding his suit jacket over the door to a stall and unbuttoning the fitted grey shirt beneath. Q bounced one foot in the air, staring first at the floor and then back at the apparatus in his hands. Knowing that one of the most dangerous men in the world had trouble fitting together a set of electric trimmers was a bit disappointing.

Stripped to a sleeveless white tee, Bond sauntered back over in range of the sink, hands jammed in his pockets. “How do you want me?” he asked with an innocent affect, glancing up to catch Q’s eye.

“On a plane to Minsk,” Q deadpanned.

“No, that’s _where_ you want me,” Bond corrected. Q rolled his eyes.

“Stand just there,” he ordered with a halfhearted wave of one hand. “Turn your back to me.”

“Feeling a bit dominant, are we?” Bond said, moving to stand just before the sink, his back obediently turned.

“My job involves herding well-armed cats, 007. I’ve had to adapt.”

“You can call me James, you know,” Bond offered, turning his head halfway around. It was an old routine, and one Q didn’t feel like playing out.

“I know,” he responded, placing his hands to either side of Bond’s head and turning him back round.

“You’re no fun,” Bond complained. Q flicked the clippers on with a sudden harsh buzz.

“I’m lots of fun,” Q replied, holding the clippers in Bond’s peripheral blind spot. “You just bring out the worst in me.”  

“It’s a talent,” Bond said wryly.

Any further attempt at conversation derailed when Q lowered the clippers to the base of his skull and slowly traveled upward. A soft, pleased hum escaped Bond’s lips at the contact, and Q’s mouth absolutely did not twitch up at the sound. He moved the shaver in long, smooth lines, tracing the natural contours with a light touch. There was something soothing about the process that he couldn’t quite puzzle out, feeling the vibrations travel up his arm. He’d never actually cut anyone’s hair before, but he seemed to be doing a passable job of it. Bond certainly wasn’t complaining.

He allowed Q to tilt his head as needed, first to one side, and then the other, without complaint. James Bond taking direction - no one would ever believe it, even if he showed them the security footage. That left Q pondering if he should erase this particular feed, then questioning his own question. There was no reason to blank this out. It was just a hair cut. Nothing untoward about that. Besides, most people at Six hadn’t the faintest idea that there were cameras in the loo, much less the opportunity to monitor them.

Inspecting his work, Q ran his fingers over the vastly shortened crop of hair. Bond gave a soft sigh, leaning a bit into his touch. Q paused at the unexpected reaction, a breath caught in his throat. That was - interesting. Holding his hand steady, he swept his thumb down in an arc toward Bond’s ear. “Just a little more at the sides,” he said, as if it were an objective observation.

Bond leaned back, his hip grazing the inside of Q’s thigh. Q startled a bit, but Bond didn’t stop there, curving his arm around to rest his palm against the edge of the sink just on the outside of Q’s other leg. He wasn’t penned in, not precisely, but the implication was clear. Q’s pants were already a bit less roomy than when they’d started this fiasco, and Bond’s presumptuous posture wasn’t helping in the slightest. Why had he offered to do this in the first place?

 _You know why_ , chimed in a small, unhelpful voice from the back of his mind. Identity. Control. It was honestly more worrying that Bond had agreed without protest.

“Hmm,” Q mused, considering his options. He ran his fingers along the hairline at the back of Bond’s neck, pleased to see the gooseflesh rise. So much of what he constructed for his agents was at a distance - papers falsified, routes secured. There was something thrilling in the idea of physically molding Bond into his new persona. No one could blame him for wanting to drag it out a bit.

“You know, I’m not sure I got this right,” Q said.

“What do you mean?” Bond asked, voice gone a bit rough.

“I think I should take a bit more off,” Q replied. “You have your orders, after all. We wouldn’t want your contact to mistake you for someone else.”    

“Can’t have that,” Bond murmured. Q adjusted the gauge on the blades just so, holding them close to Bond’s right ear when they snapped back in with an audible click. He gave a slight twitch, and Q rested his hand lightly on Bond’s left shoulder as if to gentle him. Bond slowly raised the hand not gripping the sink as if to cover his own, but Q withdrew before he could.

Guiding the trimmer around his ear and moving up along his temple, Q could feel Bond hold his breath. He repeated the pattern on the opposite side, eventually returning to the back of his neck and sliding up. It was a bit trickier than the first time, having less to work with and trying not to nick anything. Bond’s breathing evened out beneath his gentle, roving hands and his own slowed to match. Q took his time, making a lengthy effort of it, but eventually he had to call it done.        

“There’s a good boy,” Q murmured, running his hand across Bond’s scalp. “All done.” He froze, his hand hovering a few centimetres above Bond’s head. Oh fuck, he thought, watching his little game unravel as reality bled back in at the corners. He’s never going to let you live this down, he’s going to -

Bond turned around without taking a step back, moving his hand from the sink ledge to slide slowly down Q’s thigh. Q gave a small gasp, unable to look away. Reaching up with the other, Bond wrapped a dark curl around one finger. “James -” Q warned softly, to no effect whatsoever.

“I could be very good for you,” Bond said, leaning in closer.  

Q swallowed hard. “Good to me, perhaps, but not _for_ me.”

“To you, then,” Bond agreed, brushing his knuckles lightly down Q’s cheek before sliding his hand down his neck. His fingertips traveled lightly down Q’s shirt, trailing heat. Q’s nipples were hard, rubbing against the starched fabric and leaving a small part of his brain vaguely embarrassed. The rest of his mind had been offline for a while now and gave no sign of reconnecting.    

“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” Q asked, eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord.

“Don’t you know when to stop talking?” Bond fired back.

Q shook his head. “Nervous habit.” _Fuck_.  

“Do I make you nervous?” Bond asked in a terribly wicked cant.

“You make everyone nervous,” Q murmured, dissembling.

“Not true,” Bond said, hot breath ghosting over Q’s lips. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted to be kissed quite so much in his entire life and it was humiliating. Bond, of course, did not oblige.   

“You could try a bit harder to shut me up,” Q suggested, his mouth operating without his better judgement.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Bond said with a smirk, sliding one hand down Q’s leg as he slowly sank to one knee. Q couldn’t help but open his eyes to watch him, appreciating the sight of James Bond at his feet.

“Your trousers will be filthy,” Q admonished, his brain making an admirable struggle to catch up.

“I don’t mind,” Bond replied, cutting his eyes up to meet Q’s with an intimidating heat. He settled himself between Q’s legs and ran a hand up the length of his cock, uncomfortably hard beneath his flies. Flicking the top button open, Bond dragged the zipper down carefully, earning a sharply indrawn breath. Q bit down hard on his lower lip when Bond pulled the band of his boxers down and freed his erection, giving it a long, slow stroke.

“Anyone could walk in -” Q managed, glancing toward the door.

“Stop. Talking.” Bond shifted forward, taking the full length of Q’s cock into his mouth. It worked. Q’s head fell back to hit the mirror with a loud thump, and words were the farthest thing from his mind. Enveloped in wet, velvety heat, his mouth fell open and he couldn’t be sure, but Q thought he might be moaning.

Pulling back just a bit, Bond stroked the base of his cock with one hand, the other clamped down onto his hip. Q squirmed a bit for balance, trying not to fall backward into the basin. Bond’s hand traveled down to cup his balls, giving them a gentle massage while sliding up to suck on the very tip. Q’s foreskin was stretched back in a tight band beneath his glans and Bond expertly swirled his tongue around it. His hips thrust forward without asking him for permission, but Bond handled it gracefully. Sinking back down to press his lips against Q’s skin, he swallowed.

Q gave a loud cry that echoed back from the metal panelling, making his head swim. Fuck, Bond was good at this. He wasn’t sure why he might have thought otherwise, given the man’s rather carnal approach to espionage. He clutched at the sink with his right hand, white knuckled, the other lightly brushing Bond’s scalp. If he’d still had hair, Q would have grabbed it and tugged, hard. If he’d still had hair, Q’s cock most likely wouldn’t have been in his mouth, so it made for a fair trade. Bond’s lips were tight around him, sliding down and back up his length. He let the head pop out of his mouth, flicking his tongue into the slit, before sucking it back in. His hand had moved up from Q’s sac to work the base, sliding just barely up and back down with a tight grip. He slid his tongue down the underside, stroking at the taut line of skin just beneath Q’s swollen head and oh god, that was it.

“James,” Q gasped out. “I think -”

Bond sank back down, humming as he took Q in deep. He brushed one hand over his balls, pulled up high and tight, and rubbed two fingers against the skin just behind. Q came with a short, muffled shout, and then another, forgetting to breathe as he spilled down Bond’s throat. He kept up the pressure, stroking Q with his tongue as he swallowed around the head and took it all. Q’s vision took its time fading back in, gone past white light and into stars and static.    

After what felt like hours, Bond slid back, wiping a trail of come and saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand. “If you could still think during that,” he said hoarsely. “I wasn’t doing a very good job.”

“No, you - “ Q fumbled. “Did an excellent job.”

“High praise,” Bond said, giving Q’s oversensitive cock a gentle tug before tucking him back inside his boxers. “I’m sure you expected nothing less.”

“Awfully demanding, aren’t I?” Q wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, but he knew they were probably a bad idea.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bond said, doing up his flies for him and fastening the button at the top.

“You do know how much trouble you’re in?” Q made an attempt to sit up and nearly fell straight back against the mirror.

Bond shot him an odd look, his hands lingering at Q’s waist. “Going to report me for harassment, are you?” The disbelief in his tone was clear.

“Should have done that months ago,” Q said, waving off his mock suspicions. “Only now I know you can take direction, if properly motivated.”

“You’re lucky I like your cock,” Bond said, attempting a reprimand.

“You’ve only just met it,” Q scoffed. “What else do you like?” He figured he couldn’t be blamed for fishing for compliments in his current state. Bond gave a quiet laugh.

“Greedy aren’t you?” he said, smoothing down Q’s shirt. “I’m rather fond of your mouth, even when it’s running off.”

“I’m going to remember that,” Q warned him.

“I don’t doubt it,” Bond replied. “Which leads directly to my favorite part.” Q raised his eyebrows, waiting, blood still pounding in his ears. Bond took his head in his hands, leaning down to press a quick kiss against his crown.

“My hair?” Q questioned, knowing he was being a brat and not caring one whit.

“That brilliant mind,” Bond whispered against the shell of his ear. “When it’s working. Idiot.” He nipped Q’s earlobe before pulling back, brushing his thumb over one cheekbone. “Do you really think I can't use a set of clippers?”

“The amount of ordinary tasks you require aid with is astounding. Besides,” Q said defensively. “You can’t blame me for going a bit flatline.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Bond said with an infuriating wink.

“You’ve got a plane to catch,” Q reminded him, reaching out to run his hand over Bond’s newly shorn head one last time. Bond pressed against his hand like a dog eager for attention. A low fire sparked in his belly at the thought.

“I do,” Bond said, straightening up. Q’s hand fell down and landed ungracefully on his thigh. “Can’t you change the flight plan? Send me somewhere warm?”

Q laughed. “Not this time, 007.” Bond frowned a bit at the designation. “If you don’t meet this phantom contact of yours, you will have shaved your head for nothing.”

“You shaved it,” Bond corrected, ruffling Q’s hair. “And not for nothing.” Q ducked his head, letting a few stray curls fall in his face. Bond’s footsteps sounded slowly toward the exit, then stopped.

“Keep a line open, will you?” Bond tossed the words over his shoulder, as if they were only an afterthought.

Sliding down from the sink, Q took a few wobbly steps to stand behind him. “I’ll be right here, as always,” he said, reaching up to tap a finger against his ear. _You are who I make you, after all_.

Bond gave a perfunctory nod and continued toward the door, pausing only long enough to lever its hefty weight. “I’m counting on it,” he said before letting the door fall shut behind him.     

   

 

Q waited until he knew Bond would be restless and bored at 35,000 feet before sending him a text. _You really should buy 004 a new set of clippers._ The response came back immediately. 

_ridiculous, I only broke one piece_

Q grinned, imagining how insulted he must look. _I’m not going to be the one to tell him,_ he sent back. The response took a bit longer this time.

_Tell him what, exactly?_

_That he’s been using dog shears_ , Q tapped out, hitting the send button with a bit more force than usual. Locking his phone, he slid it in a drawer beneath his workstation and endeavored to forget about it. It buzzed twice, then twice again after less than a minute, and R gave him a cross look over a deconstructed laptop.

“Are you going to get that?” she asked.

“Oh, I doubt I have to,” he said, characteristically cryptic. R shook her head. A quiet beep sounded in his ear, and Q counted to ten before reaching up to press the button.

“Hello, 007. In trouble already?”     

“Why don't you tell me?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It figures that my first published 00Q fic would be PWP instead of the post-Skyfall slow burn that's been gathering dust for over a year. I accidentally set this in that universe, so I hope the small references aren't too jarringly out of setting. I hang out [at tumblr](http://griesly.tumblr.com), if you'd like to say hello!
> 
> Written for my best co-conspirator, as always. <3


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